


Gun In My Hand

by Captain_Assbut_at_221B



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crack, Depressing, Destiel - Freeform, End of the World, Fluff, Heavy - Freeform, Heavy Angst, M/M, No Spoilers, Other, Supernatural - Freeform, end of supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:10:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Assbut_at_221B/pseuds/Captain_Assbut_at_221B
Summary: It was never supposed to be this way.It was never supposed to end with just him, all alone.The pyres smoldered in the distance, and he sat alone.And at last, Dean Winchester came to and end.





	Gun In My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> ********TRIGGER WARNING*********  
This is an intense fic, there is a lot of angst and suicidal thoughts! PLEASE STAY SAFE EVERYONE, AND KNOW THAT THERE IS HELP OUT THERE!! Lots of love to all!

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. Dean sat in the Impala. There was a bloody angel blade in the backseat. There was a box of matches in his pocket. He was alone. He looked out at the endless field of grass and he saw the two pyres, still smoldering, to his left. His hand reached for the glove box. And it wrapped around the handle of his gun. He looked up to the sky where he knew there was no god listening. And as he breathed out, he thought it again. It was never supposed to end this way.  
He had never seen it coming. All those years they fought together. All that time they had spent together. Dean had loved him. He was family. And yet, he still snapped. One day, he just stopped being the person Dean had loved, and he became something else. He became the monsters they hunted. It was spelled out, just how Cain has spoken it. But it was different too. Worse. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.  
It started with Crowley. Castiel had been a bit worrisome, but there were no complaints when he took up his blade and killed him. Truly killed him. It was the way he did it. Cass was always one for a quick death. He didn’t like to watch suffering. But he had carved up Crowley like a Christmas day turkey. He had taken his time. And he had enjoyed it. Dean had watched him, and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the pain, it was so real. He told himself he could stop him, but he knew. Cass, the Cass he loved and cared about? That Cass was gone. And it just got worse. He killed demons. He killed angels. He killed whatever he could get his hands on. And then, he did the worst thing he could do.  
Dean and Sam had gone to talk him down, to slow him down, and to stop him if necessary. And when they found him, when they fought him, He did the unthinkable. And Dean watched as his angel, the only one he had ever loved, sank his blade into Sam’s heart. He did it nice and slow too. He pulled Sam close to him as he drove the blade deeper, until their bodies were practically melded together. The last thing Sam heard was his brother screaming. Then, it was silence. Dean had charged into the fray and he had ended it. He had taken his blade and he had driven it into the heart of the only man he had ever loved. And he held him close to his body, even as the burning of his wings scorched him, he held Cass close to him, and he wept over him. After all the villains he had fought, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Eve, Crowley, Ruby, Dick Roman, Metatron, Amara, God himself, after all that, he found out. The greatest villain had been by his side all along. Always there. The darkest threat he had faced, the worst evil he had ever tasted, it was his best friend. It was his hero.  
He burned their bodies alone. He took his axe and he cut every log by himself. Sam should have been a heavier body to bear, but it was Cass; it was his body that was the hardest to carry. It was weighed down by all the times that Dean had failed him. It was heavy with all the times that Dean had caused him pain. It was so heavy he could barely lift him. His legs staggered under the weight of his failure. And when he laid him on the pyre, he wept over him again. He laid his head on his chest and he cried. The burns on his own chest were painful, but this was harder than anything he had ever faced. He burned Sam’s body last. He had pulled open the sheet he had wrapped his brother in, and he thought about how he was finally with Jess again. He had pressed a final kiss to his brother’s forehead, and taking the amulet, he laid it on his chest. He had watched the flames until they were flickers, and then he left. He walked up the hill and slipping into the Impala, he looked out over the wide expanse of that beautiful state of Kansas. He realized it as he sat there. His one dream, the one thing he wanted to accomplish, to have Sam grow old and happy, he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t rest in the fact that his brother had lived a good life, and had died old and normally. He looked out at the pyres smoldering in the distance. And reaching into the glove box he pulled out his gun. He thought of Sam, of his laugh, how he had loved Jess, how he had loved Amelia. He thought of the weight he had carried. And he thought of Castiel. He thought of his funny smile, and his beautiful eyes. He thought of how much he had loved him. He looked up at the prop amulet hanging from his review mirror. He smelled the familiar scents of beer and boy and the lingering smell of sex. It wafted up from the Impala seats like the smell of home. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo of him and Sam and their mother. He leaned it up against the dash and put his copy of the photo of him, Sam, Cass, Bobby, Ellen and Jo next to it. Everyone in that picture was dead. Everyone but him. So he remembered them, and he smiled. Through all the tears and the loss he smiled. Because he had gotten one thing right. He looked down at his gun and he remembered all the years it had served him. It had been by his side, a faithful companion for longer than he cared to remember. It had always been steady, its aim had always been true, and he had almost never missed with it. He gripped it tight, and running his thumb along the trigger, he smiled wider. He put the barrel to his temple. He had gotten just one thing right. Hadn’t he always told Sammy? Hadn’t he always said it? He was always going to die with his gun in his hand.


End file.
